


Nintendo DS Lite

by kaulayau



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, I watched the “Good Hunting” episode of Love Death + Robots, Online Dating, and it was pretty good, because Adulthood, because I love the author of the original story, like Vanya’s looking for some romance-shmomance and it doesn’t go as planned, you should check it out if you have the time, ”you got me there” from Catfish meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 22:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18374942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaulayau/pseuds/kaulayau
Summary: “I just,” Vanya says. Just what? What does she want? Does she want to find love? That’s not an actual goal, at least not to her. Does she want to leave? No. Not really. Not at all. What is it, then? Does she want to be alone? She’s had a lot of time alone. Does she want something, anyone, someone? Does she want to be — not alone? “I don’t know, guys.”Yeah, what’s up with that?She’ll wait for her siblings to trickle out (and stop petting her limp and lifeless arms). But they don’t.(If they were still kids, they probably would have.)border border borderVanya plays the game of love. More or less.





	Nintendo DS Lite

**Author's Note:**

> happy Valentine’s Day! 
> 
> wait

Vanya gets matched with a girl in a fuzzy green coat. The girl says she’s a Hufflepuff (Vanya likes to think she herself is a Slytherin, or maybe a Ravenclaw — she’s not sure how she’ll categorize the rest of her family, though), and wears floral flip flops with a leather skirt. (Diego would absolutely love her. Especially the floral flip flops.) The girl wears glasses. She’s a software developer. She’s a fan of some figure-skating competitions that Vanya doesn’t know enough about to discuss properly.

They go out to watch a movie at one of the special rerun places. A YouTuber that Vanya vaguely recognizes hosts the event — it’s one of the mid-two-thousand-tens X-Men shebangs. (Allison didn’t get cast in this one. Apparently, the producers thought it would be too on-the-nose.) (She’d make a better Mystique, though.)

It’s been a while since her first date.

God. Her first date didn’t end well at _all._

It was more than just one first date, really. It was multiple dates that were also firsts.

(But at least she’s got a couple milestones that are out of the way.

At least _virginity_ isn’t something she’s got to fucking worry about.

No, actually? That’s very fucking worrisome.)

“Hey,” Vanya tells the girl. “That was… that was really nice.” The girl is much, much taller than her. And Vanya’s had her hands in her sweater pockets all day.  

And the girl agrees. They side-hug. They share numbers. They say they’ll meet again.

They never speak again.

Fuck.

That’s fine.

* * *

The clock in their living room says it’s eight o’clock, but her phone says it’s ten-twenty-two. The kitchen is empty — then Five jumps in in a flash. Vanya has to blink the spots out of her eyes.

It’s looks like Five’s playing something on an age-old-looking game console. (They haven’t used those things since two-thousand-two. Klaus smuggled them out as their birthday presents.) On the table are two glasses of milk, two oranges, and two peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, without the crust.

“So,” says Five. “How was it?” He puts straws in the milk glasses.

Vanya pulls up a chair. “It was pretty all right, actually.” It’s still kind of fucking weird to see him as a thirteen-year-old. Fourteen-year-old. She’s not sure what counts or how to count it. (But they're still the same height.)

Five hums. “That’s good. That’s great. I’m happy for you.” He starts peeling their oranges. “Did you fuck?”

Oh, God. “No.” That’s hilarious. “There was no — _fucking_ involved.” She chews on her sandwich. How long had it been left out? “But… I have a really good feeling about this.” Why’s he looking at her like that? “Honestly.”

“All right.” They finish their dinner. “Here. Play this level. I haven’t seen this shit in forty-five years.”

* * *

She listens to their repertoire on her phone. (Vanya used to have this MP3 player when she was younger. Five got it for her. It was fucking great. It wasn’t as versatile as Spotify, but it was blue, and she had stickers all over it. Eventually, she couldn’t find it anymore, and that was the end of a fucking era.)

In a couple of months, an up-and-coming violinist from Sweden — she had won the Junior Division in the Menuhin Competition twice in row — is coming to play with the Symphony. They’re practicing this season’s normal shit (the music of John Williams, Shostakovich symphonies, and, if Vanya remembers right, some of Andries Nelson’s work) as well as the _Carmen Fantasy,_ by Pablo Sarasate, for the Menuhin violinist. Along with other pieces. Much of it is Sarasate.

Being concertmaster is fucking terrifying. She’s had to talk to more (different, talented, handsome, (fabulously, somewhat) wealthy) people than she has in the past six years. Vanya practices for so long she’s calloused. She is hearing a metronome when she probably shouldn’t be.

She flips the latches on her case. It’s thirty minutes until rehearsal — everyone’ out of their seats. Everyone’s asking about Frank’s kids, or Jie’s new apartment, or Lina’s grandsons.

Vanya stays where she is.

“Hey. Vanya.”

Oh, fuck.

No, wait.

“Helen.” She had been first chair since Vanya started working at the Symphony. (Should they hug? Do they hug? No. Okay. Or.) “It’s — oh, my gosh. Where have you been? How — how are you?”

“Everything’s been,” says Helen, “everything’s been okay.” The pause is too long. “I got sick for a really long time, so.”

That's good. Or — fuck, that’s _not_ good, just. She’s here now. _That’s_ the good thing about this. (Vanya thought that Helen was fucking _murdered,_  the last time she talked about her. So.) “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s all right.”

They’ve never really _talked_. The first time they had a conversation, it wasn’t really a conversation. It was in a bathroom, no less.

And Vanya found out that Helen’s brother had died the day before they spoke. (He had a brain tumor. He was nineteen.) Helen basically went completely manic for two weeks. It wasn’t great.

Vanya had no fucking idea that Helen had family.

So fuck. All right.

“Is —” Vanya takes out her bow and starts tightening the hair — “is there anything you need, or?” God. She hopes she doesn’t sound too hostile. Fuck.

“Just,” says Helen. “I’ve been put in the back by the conductor for this one. Um. I mean, can I borrow your sheet music for the Jurassic Park theme? I don’t have any markings or anything, so.”

Okay. “Y-yeah. Yeah, of course. Let me.” She gets her folder out. “Here.” Vanya gives her the whole fucking thing. Fuck. “I have all the bowings for the Tarantelle, too. It gets. Kind of hectic.”

Helen nods. She smiles. “Thanks.” Oh. “Vanya, I really appreciate it.”

She has dimples.

* * *

This time, she’s going to an art museum. It’s the old one downtown. (The volunteers there are oddly passionate for sixteen-year-olds.)

“Is this the same bitch as before?” Klaus asks her. He’s holding out scarves. She doesn’t like this one. He throws it aside.

“She wasn’t bitchy,” Vanya says. “And it’s not. It’s a dude this time.”

Allison makes an _aw_ sound. “I thought the last one went okay, though,” she says. Vanya lets her sister do her lipstick. (Because Vanya’s not that good at doing the exciting stuff. Everything in Vanya’s makeup bag is brown, and from two-thousand-twelve. Allison has a whole fixture of shit.)

“Yeah,” Vanya says. “This new guy’s twenty-six.”

Klaus opens a tube. “Move over, Allison.” The tube is eyeliner. (Klaus calls himself the master at it. That’s gone uncontested so far.) He puts his hand on her head and starts tracing. “Twenty-six? Vanya. You fucking cougar.” He’s finished. He steps back. “You fucking _star._ Oh, my God _._ ”

Allison almost dances. She takes Vanya’s hands. “You’re perfect. And with that blouse? That’s it.”

She takes a glance in the mirror.

Oh, okay. Cool.

Her siblings give her a thumbs-up. She’ll take what she can get.

* * *

The twenty-six-year-old has a Ph.D in Biology. He teaches at a high school. His parents wanted him to be a lawyer — they owned a firm, and wanted to keep it in the family. When he smiles, it’s something flat and weak. He does shows on the side.

“Shows?” Vanya asks. The twenty-six-year-old’s a singer. Thankfully, he doesn’t demonstrate.

He asks her what she thinks of a painting. It’s of a city. It looks European. There are pastel colors, people in pairs, and the sun off a long, shiny river.

“I like it,” she says. “It’s pretty.”

He gives her a flyer afterwards. He’s performing at some city center in the coming weeks.

(Vanya knows that she will not attend.)

* * *

She calls her brother. “Hey. Diego, can you…  pick me up? I left my — fucking bus pass at the Academy, and I spent all my cash on food.” (And the gift shop had a book about Frida Kahlo that she knows that Ben would fucking eat up. It cost thirty-two dollars.) (She hasn’t seen him in so fucking long. She thought she’d never see him again.)

“Fuck,” says Diego. “Yeah. Sure. No problem. I’m on my way right now.”

She hears a crash, and a shout, and a car alarm. “If — if you’re in the middle of a mission, that’s totally cool, I can call —”

“No, seriously. I’m on my way. I got you.” He’s still on the other end. “Everything okay? You still there?”

She sits at the curb and crosses her legs. “I’m okay,” she tells him.

She starts reading the book. (But Ben doesn’t like it if the pages are crumpled, so she makes sure to be careful.) The first page is the dedication.

* * *

“Where’d you guys go?” asks Luther. Vanya puts her purse down. Diego tosses her his keys to hang up — normally, she’s a bad catch, but Diego makes sure she aces this one. (They have a wooden rack on the wall with all their names on it, where they drape all their shit over.)

“Vanya,” says Diego, “had a date.”

He nudges her gently. She thinks he’s winking, but when it’s Diego, she doesn’t know for sure. (Diego probably had plans to build a sex dungeon at some point of his life. Probably at their adolescence. Knives. Oh, God. Never mind. Vanya’s going to pretend that her mind is clear and pure.)

Luther’s eyebrows go up. “A date.” Yeah. “Do we know this guy? Girl? What do they do for a living? Did they touch you? Do they know anything about us?”

“Everyone knows about us,” says Vanya. She wrote a fucking book about it. (But it’s not just that. That just makes it worse.) “Do you want a social security number, too, Luther?” She takes her jacket off.

Luther fidgets around. He picks up her jacket and folds it in fourths.  

“Did you… _like_ your date?” he asks.

Vanya shrugs. “It was all right.”

(Her phone buzzes. She has a text from Helen.

Oh, shit, yeah. She still has Vanya’s folder.

Vanya shared with second chair during rehearsal. She must have forgotten.

Helen uses too many emojis in her apology. But it kind of makes Vanya feel like smiling.

Yeah, she’ll tell Helen so.)

* * *

She finds Ben on the backyard steps of their house, and she hands him his Frida Kahlo novel. “I got through the first two chapters,” she tells him. “It’s pretty good, you know. The reviews are, yeah. They’re all great. I think I’m — crying already, honestly.”

He grins, and claims his prize. “Vanya, you’re the best.” He hugs her.

“Yeah, no,” she says. “Of course.” The hug lasts five fucking seconds. (She doesn’t mind. Really. It’s her and the world’s contractual obligation to hug Ben whenever possible.)

“Hold on, though.” Ben weighs the novel out, then eyes her with suspicion. The book is a hardcover. “How much was this?”

“Nothing,” she says right away. He’s about to protest. “It’s — it’s a gift. Just take it. Five, uh, missed all our birthdays, anyway. I’m — I don’t know. I’m making up for him. He’s a fetus. He has no cash. That would be — illegal.” That was fucking stupid. How did that process as a good idea? Fuck.

Ben lets out a puff of air. He’s a little amused. “Okay.” He looks at the cover flaps of the novel and flips through the pages. “Don’t feel bad, Vanya.”

(So he sees right fucking through her. She should have known.) “What?”

“Don’t feel bad that I was — dead.” He’s looking past her shoulder. “It’s okay. _You_ couldn’t have done anything about it.”

And of course not. She didn’t know she _could_ do anything. No one told her. And no one would left her. But — “Well, I wasn’t _there_. So I’m complicit.” Ben pouts. When Ben gets pouty, the world flips over and grows fucking flowers to appease him. Vanya’s pretty willing to do the same. “I don’t know how this resurrection shit works.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Me, too.” He closes the book. “But that wasn’t your fault, either.” He smiles a bit, then, which doesn’t fit well. (But it’s better than any alternative.)

* * *

She’s in culinary school, paints her nails with decals, and says she’s a Libra. (Vanya still doesn’t know what that means. Klaus has tried to explain on multiple occasions, but she still can’t catch on.) The girl’s also a six-footer — or so her profile claims. Vanya is starting think that tall girls are her type, but she can’t really say for sure at this point.

But she isn’t here yet. Vanya’s stuck scrolling through this girl’s Instagram feed and nodding at waitresses.

The girl sends a message, and asks if Vanya’s at the coffee shop yet.

This restaurant sells Italian food.

* * *

Diego drives her back to the Academy again.

“Miss Vanya,” says Pogo. “Sir Diego. Good evening.”

“Hello, Honey,” says Mom.

She mutters back.

The first thing Vanya does is plant her face on the fucking sofa. (Well, she puts Diego’s keys up on the rack first. Then she face-plants.)

And all her fucking siblings are here to behold her fall.

God, she’s so stupid. She’s so _stupid._  Like. How the _fuck?_ How the _fuck_ does this happen? _Why_ does this happen? She’s a fully- _fucking_ -grown adult. She does her _fucking_ laundry. She tunes her violin with _pegs._ She changes her strings once a _fucking_ month. What’s wrong with her? Which screw was hammered loose? What ruined her?

Well. She knows what ruined her.

“Is she drunk?” Klaus asks. He’s shaking her. “Are you _drunk?_ No, Vanya’s never drunk. Hello? Are you okay?”

“Can I get you something?” Allison says.

She hears a poof. It’s Five. “I’ve brought a glass of orange juice. And Advil.”

“She’s not _sick,”_ says Luther. “Vanya, you’re not sick, right? Five, give me the orange juice —”

Ben taps her head with his finger. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.”

“Oh, we’re not moving,” says Diego, “until we talk about this. We’re going to solve this shit.”

As a response, Vanya groans unintelligibly. (This is what she missed out at age seventeen, probably. The drama. The lipstick. It’s not something that she regrets skipping on.) (It kind of is, though.)

Now all her siblings take their turn in shaking her.

And she still stays prone on the sofa.

“I just,” Vanya says. Just what? What does she want? Does she want to find _love?_ That’s not an actual _goal,_ at least not to her. Does she want to leave? No. Not really. Not at all. What is it, then? Does she want to be alone? She’s had a lot of time alone. Does she want something, anyone, someone? Does she want to be — _not_ alone? “I don’t know, guys.”

Yeah, what’s fucking up with that?

She’ll wait for her siblings to trickle out (and stop petting her limp and lifeless arms). But they don’t.

(If they were still kids, they probably would have.)

* * *

Helen lives in a townhouse. The doorpost is covered in scratches. Vanya knocks it.

“Vanya!” says Helen. She’s holding a cat. The cat has three legs. “I’m — I just really wanted to get you your sheet music back before next time, and —”

“No, no, yeah,” says Vanya. “This is really great of you. Thanks.”

And Helen smiles with her dimples again.

Then they realize they’ve been kind of loitering.

“Oh,” Helen tells her, readjusting, “come in. I’ve… it’s in my dining room.” She puts her three-legged cat down with a certain fondness. It hobbles away.

Vanya follows her. There’s a big fish tank in Helen’s living room, with a dozen different varieties. “What’s your cat’s name?” Its eyes are _huge_ , and its fur is up in billowy tufts. Vanya decides that this, with the fish tank, is not a good combination.

“Ganon,” says Helen. “Here’s your stuff.” She hands Vanya her folder. It’s in the exact order she had left it. Except much neater. “Do — do you have anywhere to go?” She’s chewing on her lips — they’re tinted pink. Her teeth are white. Her hair is parted down the middle. “Is it okay if we, maybe, talk about some of the entrances in the _Fantasy_ —”

“Yeah,” Vanya says. “Yeah, totally, let’s.” She’d love to. (She remembered to bring her bus pass, anyway.)

Helen is just as tall as Vanya is. She has freckles, all across her nose.

“I’ll make tea,” says Helen. She disappears into the kitchen. She’s humming the _Habanera,_ an octave down. Her voice carries nicely.

And Vanya drops her fucking folder.

All the sheet music is floating, as if in a lake, or over ice.

Fuck. Okay. She forgets about this.

She fucking gathers her papers in a flurry before Helen comes back to question it.

(It would freak her out. Luckily, the cat’s the only eyewitness.)

(And they kind of make a habit of these discussions. They listen to recordings of all their performance pieces.

And they’re going to do this again soon.)

* * *

This one’s going to be with an environmentalist. He’s a fan of Neil deGrasse Tyson, Doctor Who, and Bill Nye. He’s quite a bit older than her — thirty-seven, but she doesn’t mind too much — and he wants to meet at a bar. _That_ part of it is a rather worrying notion, but Vanya figures it would be fine. She has back-up — her siblings are emergency contacts. And now she’s realizing that she can probably protect herself if she needed or wanted to…

Then Five appears. Again come the spots in Vanya’s vision. Everything has a chokingly bluish hue to it for a minute.

Her brother waves. His uniform has been ironed and washed. He smells like cologne. There’s fucking gel in his hair.

“What are you doing here?” The bar’s clearly twenty-one-plus. (She’s heard his technically-basically-sixty-years-old argument a dozen times.) “I’m waiting for —” the environmentalist. Oh. _Oh_. Neil deGrasse Tyson. “Fuck.” Vanya slings her purse over her arm and makes sure her phone’s in her pocket. “Let’s go. We’re going.”

Five flags down the barkeep and mumbles an order. “What? But we’re going on a _date_ , Vanya.”

“No,” she says, “we’re _not_.” The bottles on the rack start rattling. Fuck. Fuck, she’s making a scene. She has to stop (or else all the chairs here will start splintering up and flying). “Oh, God. I can’t believe you.” Why isn’t he moving? “Five.”

The barkeep has returned.

“I just got us shots,” Five tells her. Fuck. “This’ll be fun. Sit.”

This is dumb. “You’re a fucking minor,” she says.

He tilts back his head and is already at it with the alcohol. “First of all, no. And Diego knows the owner. Pulled some strings. No one’s going to get caught, and it’s not against the law. Second of all — when do we ever do anything together anymore? Ever? And don’t goddamn talk about when we were eleven-twelve-thirteen. Those are faraway fucking memories.” Not to her. “I mean, that was…” He takes her portion. “Different.” He seems as if he feels guilty.

And Vanya feels that this is humiliating.

But Five is already looking at the dinner menu. He’s already asking for fries and a salad. He’s already sifling through desserts.

So fine.

Fucking fine.

She has nothing else planned.

“You did miss all our birthdays,” she says.

* * *

The guy she’s paired up with has an impressive beard, and is allegedly employed at the general hospital. He collects souvenir coins and wears a belt. He’s just recovering from a massive break-up. (His ex-boyfriend worked at Great Clips — which the guy found ridiculous — and was working on his World Religions degree — what the guy seems to believe is a wasted endeavor. His ex was apparently kind of an asshole, as he claims, but mutual memories are still at least somewhat affectionate.)

They talk outside of a bakery. (Well. He does.) The guy has smoked two cigarettes from a fraying pack of Marlboros (and Vanya holds in her cough).

“Oh,” she says all the while. “That sucks. I’m sorry. Wow.” She speaks in repeat. “That’s horrible. Okay.”

When they’re done, he buys her a box of red-velvet macarons, and thanks her for listening to him. She doesn’t remember his name. She’ll have to double-check.

* * *

“Vanya,” says Helen, surprised. “I’m. Oh, my God. When you texted me if I wanted dessert, you didn’t tell me that meant — right now.”

Fuck. Vanya fucking didn’t. She had fucking forgotten. She just thought it was appropriate. She thought it would be. Fuck. Oh, God. The only thing she’s supposed to do before dropping by on someone is let them know that she’s fucking dropping by.

“I’m so sorry. I — here. My sister doesn’t like the red velvet stuff, so.” That’s a fucking lie. Five is the one that hates red-velvet flavoring. But Vanya doesn’t want to mention brothers in front of Helen. “I — I thought you would.” And Helen takes the box of red-velvet macarons hesitantly. “I’ll go. I’m so sorry. This is totally my mistake.” Vanya’s remembering to take her bus pass almost every day now. (She’s been on a roll.) The escape won’t be so hard.

“No, wait,” says Helen. She raises a hand in front of Vanya’s face. She’s got thin, string-player fingers. “You don’t have to. Please.” Oh. Okay. That’s good then. Or. “I, uh. I found some old tapes of the guest that’s coming in a couple weeks?”

She means the guest coming to the Symphony. “The Menuhin kid?”

“Yeah,” Helen says. “The Menuhin kid.” They sway in place for a second. “We can share these —” she lifts the box — “and check out those videos. That’s if you don’t…”

“No, I,” says Vanya. “I’d be honored.”

And she enters Helen’s house. (Ganon the three-legged runs away when he sees her.)

* * *

Allison confronts her, grinning. “I thought you said you were coming back with macarons.”

“Uh, no,” says Five, “she said that she _got_ macarons, but she never said that she was bringing any back. Don’t you read the fucking group chat?” And Allison scoffs at that.

“If you reread the court proceedings, you will see that he’s correct,” Klaus announces. He’s playing with his dog tags. “Vanya. Vanya.”

He also happens to be punching her arm. She’s putting down her stuff. “What’s wrong?” Where’s her wallet? Where’s her tissue pack? There they are.

“I’ve been thinking.” Okay. “You should… get a tattoo.”

Vanya probably didn’t hear him right. “Sorry?”

“Like, I fucking don’t know,” Klaus says. Five and Allison are glaring murder at him. “It doesn’t hurt that bad. I mean, I can barely remember my first time. But the other times — it’s not even a pinch. You should get one. I’ll go with you and everything.”

Well. “Why would I get a tattoo?”

Klaus seems almost incredulous at first. “To match us,” he explains. Oh. Yeah. (The rest of them were twelve when they got — fucking branded or whatever. They’d brandish themselves like first-place medals. They’d compare each other’s wrists, to make sure everything was symmetrical. She never got to understand why. Maybe it’s a solidarity thing. It was something that they, and only they had. That is, until trends started circulating. She remembers the Twitter pictures.) “You used to, like, pretend you’d. You know.” And he just moves his arms. “And we never. We never actually.”

It’s funny.

“I’ll pass on that one.”

A part of her appreciates it.

But still.

She goes up to her room.

* * *

Vanya makes an attempt to find her MP3 player. (She has done nothing all day.)

It’s under her bed, maybe. Under Allison’s bed. In the kitchen. Cupboards are fine places to lose things. Anywhere. If it’s here, it’ll be uncovered eventually.

She has no such luck.

* * *

She goes to Helen’s house after rehearsal. Helen has a Honda Civic. “And then Ganon _threw up on the carpet,_ ” Helen says. Their sheet music is scattered on the table. Their pencils are stubs, and in another room, the metronome’s still counting. “He seriously threw up on the carpet. In front of my _grandmother_. She wanted to cook him alive. He’s — too ugly to make good meat, so nothing actually happened. But it was horrifying either way.”

“I’d imagine,” says Vanya. “That’s just.” Oh, fuck. She can’t finish the sentence. That’s stupid. That’s so stupid. She should have just gone with talking about — something. Anything. _Fuck_. She feels like she’s getting fucking cross-examined.

But Helen smiles, and shows her dimples. (Okay. Okay, good.)

Vanya plays it fucking cool.

* * *

Vanya has never gone dancing before. It’s a college-aged, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four kind of thing, and at that age she had already deemed herself past it. And besides, Vanya never went to college.

But the girl she was matched with has. (Vanya’s going out with a lot of college grads lately. She’s not sure what that reflects on her.) She’s studying English. She wants to be a grade-school teacher, and she wears her eyeshadow in wings (something Klaus would definitely like). She plays the saxophone.

Vanya wore a blazer today. She looks almost younger, but maybe that’s just a subconscious thing.

The bouncer squints at her ID, and lets her inside.

This might go okay.

The club has murals on the walls. There is an odd amount of triangles, and the tables are made of glass. The DJ is playing a pop song. There’s a cello in the chorus. How old are these kids in the crowd? There’s a lot of couples. There’s a lot of jumping, and neon lights, and laughter —

Someone takes her by the wrist.

Pepper spray. Pepper spray. Vanya has pepper spray — Vanya has magic fucking powers —

“Whoa.” Fuck. It’s Klaus, all in black. Though his nails are painted blue. And the vest might be Diego’s. “You okay, Vanya? Oh, shit, never mind. This is battery.” He drops her wrist and slings his arm over her instead. “You’re so pretty. Come here often?”

Vanya makes sure that the light fixtures aren’t cracking. “I thought you didn’t like it downtown.” Does he normally go here? (There better not be a fucking drug circle under the floors.)

Klaus moves and stands in front of her.

He smiles, almost apologetic.

Oh, fuck.

“No. No, no, no. _Klaus_.”

“Yeah,” he says.

(That girl’s fucking eyeshadow. Klaus would totally fucking love it.) Twice in a _fucking row_ now. “You — _assholes_.” But she’s the one who fell for it. “How — did Diego drive you?”

“I took the el train,” her brother says. “Are you mad at me? Vanya, don’t be mad at me. I just — felt really fucking bad about it.”

She doesn’t give a fuck about tattoos. “I don’t want to deal with this.” Vanya turns around.

“Wait.” No. “Wait, wait, wait, wait —”

He’s picking her up by the waist. Fuck. She doesn’t understand. Klaus was fucking scrawny when they were kids. “ _Put me down,_ ” she says. “Klaus, put me down.” She kicks and hits him — and he puts her down.

She faces him.

All of a sudden she doesn’t know what to tell him.

“Come on. Please?” says Klaus. “We never talk unless we have to.” That’s not true. But it’s just — he was always with Ben. Or with Diego. Or Five. Or Allison. Or Luther. They come in a pack of six, or twos, or threes. An odd number doesn’t stick well, and they never bothered to try it.

The DJ plays a slow song. The strobe lights flash more gently and the triangles seem to lose their point.

Vanya walks away.

They’re going back to the fucking Academy. They’re going to clean up. They’re going to fucking forget it.

Why isn’t he following her?

All right.

_All right._

Every step is heavy.

She isn’t fucking heartless yet — so here she is again.

Is he happy now?

Then Klaus takes her hands and twirls her first to the music.

Okay. She doesn’t care. Her fucking stupid brother. Her-stupid-fucking-self.

Whatever he finds — entertaining.

But.

Okay.

It’s not so bad.

* * *

She was pretty sure she was going to get tricked for this one. He says he’s twenty-nine, five-foot-ten, and a small business owner. His photos were horizontal. When he messaged her, she didn’t know how to tell him that she thought he was her brother.

It’s standard. Vanya is very used to split-check dinners.

She gets spaghetti. He gets something with seafood. He asks her how much she makes in a year.

“I don’t,” she says. “I don’t remember, actually.” It’s probably a few figures less than what he’s thinking.

* * *

Ganon’s going to jump into the fish tank. Vanya and Helen were it, and Helen went to get the new filters. The fish are fucking oblivious.

“Don’t you dare,” Vanya tells the dumbass cat. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

He dares.

She catches him. His feet are about to hit the water.

Helen’s in the room. “Oh, my God.”

Oh, fuck.

The cat is writhing in midair.

So’s the furniture.

* * *

They sit at the breakfast table. “What was it like?” Helen asks. “Growing up with… powers.” She’s leaning forward. Her eyes are wide. Her hair makes a curtain around her face.

“I.” Vanya’s voice croaks. She clears it. “I didn’t know, actually. They… kept it from me.” Because that’s what happened.

“That’s,” says Helen, “that must’ve sucked a lot.”

Not at the time. She didn’t even know. “Maybe a little bit. But it’s something I’m used to.”

Helen looks at her. (And Helen is wearing earrings shaped like grapes.)

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she says, sincere. “You’re…”

Her face has gone red.

She wipes at her eyes.

Fuck. Oh, no. “Are — are you okay?” Fuck. Was it something she said?

“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Helen says. She shouldn’t be apologizing. “It’s just. I’m — my.” Vanya waits. “My brother really — he was really into you guys. Your siblings. The Umbrella Academy. Superpowers. I never saw the appeal, but… he thought it was something special.” She laughs, almost strained. “He got — your — your sister, right?”

Vanya nods, and doesn’t get it. “My sister?”

“He met her at a convention, when he was fifteen,” she says. Vanya forgets that Allison’s out in the world. “I — I took him. I bought the tickets. And. She hugged him. He was — really, really happy.” Oh. “I’d never seen him so happy.”

She opens her mouth again, but it’s like she’s forgotten what she wanted to say.

Ganon the three-legged cat is on the floor.

Vanya picks him up. He’s heavy. He squirms and hisses.

When she drops him on Helen’s lap, like comfort, there’s something here that almost seems like peace.

(And Vanya hands Helen tissues.

She has some in her purse.)

* * *

There’s a special thing going on at the park that this guy she was matched to invited to attend. It’s a concert for all the local indie artists — there’s a temporary wooden stage, and a picnic area, and families scattered on the grass. It’s cute. It’s a surprisingly professional ordeal.

(Oh, God. She just realized.

Does this count as a city center?

She does _not_ want to run into that guy from the fucking art museum.)

This one claims that he’s a writer.

Vanya has her suspicions.

She finds Allison unpacking a lunch bag over a blanket. She’s wearing sunglasses, and her hair is tied up in a scarf — the closest thing she might get to a disguise — but undoubtedly, it’s her.

Suspicions confirmed.

“You do a lot of stuff for Comic Con, right?” Vanya asks. “Or those kind of — cosplay things.”

Allison looks up and makes a face. ”Uh,” she says. “Meet-and-greet-type stuff. Or the Q-and-A’s. Depends on what I’m promoting. Why?” Oh. No reason. Allison goes, _huh_. “Hey, there’s a lot of really talented people here. I’ve been following this one girl’s career — she’s coming here. She’s really promising, honestly. There’s so much raw emotion to her. She’s going to be singing some Broadway covers, I think.” Allison reaches up from her place on the ground and hands Vanya a decorated paper plate.

Vanya takes and holds it. “Why do you try so hard?” she asks. It’s harsher than what she meant it to be. “Who put you up to this?”

Allison starts piling the pasta salad. ”No one.” She gives Vanya a juice pouch. “I did. Well, it was Five’s idea to do the catfishing thing, and we all thought it would be fun.” It’s a fucking scheme. (And it’s typical that all of them are in on it.) “But I don’t need excuses to spend time with you.” Yeah. “You don’t need to stand. Here.” She pats the spot next to her.

Vanya obliges. “You made an impressive profile.”

“It’s easy to lie on the Internet,” says Allison.

Wow. “You can’t rumor a computer screen.”

“And,” Allison goes on, “you have to be more _careful._ And you have to let us know if you think something’s up.”

But she does does, mostly. “The most danger I’ve seen from this — was from you and Klaus and Five.” (They're the fucking liars, anyway. Everyone else is dry.)

Allison shifts around her scarf. “At least you’re meeting people, so that’s good. Connectivity.”

Connectivity. “Would you let Claire use the dating apps?” Vanya wants to know.

“Of course not,” says her sister. “Everyone’s a pervert.” She adjusts her sunglasses. “Look. The show’s starting.”

Allison opens a fruit snack. She lies down, puts her head on Vanya’s lap, and gets comfortable. But Vanya hasn’t put her plate down yet.

* * *

Luther’s mowing the lawn. Ben, Diego, and Vanya are here to watch. (Emotional support.)

“It’s just like old times,” says Diego.

“Yeah,” says Ben. “Except everyone’s taller.” (Vanya stopped growing when she was fucking twelve.)

“And Vanya’s a player,” Diego adds. (Vanya’s not going to think about the hypothetical fucking knife-kink dungeons.) “Maybe it’s a Hargreeves thing.”

(They never got an official sex talk. Allison learned about it from PG-13 movies. Ben read about it in sci-fi fantasy books. Diego made Mom tell him about it, so maybe that counts. She’s not sure where Luther and Klaus got it.)

“I don’t think,” says Vanya, “I ever left the house when we were kids.”

(But she was the second one to go, after Allison, when they reached that point. (Five was the first, technically. Or Ben was.) She packed her clothes, and the money she’d been saving — Klaus had taken it out for her, and she’d never gotten to ask where he’d gotten it all — and her violin. She was out before the sun rose.)

Ben says, “Where are we going to go after all of this is done?”

Beats them all.

“You can move in with me.” Vanya has a guest room, and a decent sofa. She’s only got one bathroom, though, but they’ll make it work. “You too, Diego.” (Though she isn’t sure if he’d want to. Boxer’s basements give plenty of space.) “I’ll ask Klaus after this.” He’d probably want to crash with her. (He doesn’t have anywhere else.) She doesn’t know why she hasn’t negotiated this yet. Or. Well.

Luther’s still mowing the lawn.

* * *

Diego doesn’t bother making a profile. He tells her to meet him at the botanical garden at noon — he’s the one with the car, but apparently he’s off on some vendetta or something beforehand — at the fountain in the square, where all the food stands and craftsmen’s booths are.

Helen’s seeing her mother today, so Vanya doesn’t have anything to do.

It would be fucking sad if she left him in the dust.

Her brother is wearing a bow tie. It’s out-of-place with his usual get-up.

“I’m fucking broke,” Diego lets her know, “so we’ll probably just be walking around.” Sounds like a plan, she guesses. “Hey. Um. It… was a bad idea. Not this. No. Not at all. This is good. But.” He looks for it. “We shouldn’t have put you in a box.”

“Well, you guys let me out,” she says. It took a couple hours, but it happened.

He shakes his head. “We shouldn’t have —” what?

Oh.

Yeah.

Maybe.

“You were… kids.” Vanya was a kid, too. “You didn’t know any better.” And neither did Vanya. “There was the Dad thing, too.” It’s worth a thought.

Diego doesn’t seem satisfied with her answer. “Still.”

She hears birds. There are chimes, and the wind makes them sing. The garden has visitors, and all of them linger.

“I thought you’d catfish me.” But on second thought, that’s a no. “Tinder doesn’t check for criminal records, you know.”

Diego pauses. “Is that what you’re using? What kind of shit-faced people do you see every day?” Well, they’re all at least somewhat pleasant.

“You’re just as bad as — Luther,” Vanya says.

“That’s painful.”

He offers her his arm. She makes the link.

* * *

When Helen answers the door, she gives Vanya a hug.

“It’s only been a week,” says Vanya.

“I know.”

Where's the cat? There he is.

* * *

“Look what I found,” says Luther. “Klaus and I were cleaning around, and.” He gives her a fucking MP3 player. Oh, God. The fucking MP3 player — the blue one with novelty stickers on it. Allison had put this Lisa-Frank-dolphin sticker on it. Klaus put one that looked like a Disney Princess. “You used to go everywhere with it. We were going through the attic, and it was there.” It was in the attic the whole fucking time.

“You don’t need to clean up,” Vanya tells him. “There’s still Mom and Pogo.” That was a fucking horrible thing to say. “Luther. This is. The greatest thing in the world.” She didn’t think he’d ever noticed her doing — anything.

Does the MP3 player work? It must be out of charge. No, wait. It beeps on. There’s still a ton of fucking Stravinsky shit on it — Vanya fucking loved and loves Stravinsky. (What a fucking nerd).

Wait. Fuck. It’s at twelve percent. After all this time, it’s at twelve percent. She needs to find a fucking charger.

“I guess it’s my turn now,” Luther says.

Vanya turns off her MP3 player.  “For what?” she asks. Oh, right.

* * *

They were going to take Diego’s car, but Luther doesn’t fit in the passenger’s seat. The bus is more crowded on Saturday afternoons, but it’s still more space than a fucking Chevy.

Luther bought tickets to a space museum. It’s new, and in the city over. Its exterior is sleek and pearly. There are summer-camp field trips taking pictures in front of the big model of the Earth at the entrance.

They go inside and show their tickets to the doorman.

The first exhibit is dark. The nine planets circulate around the room. (But Maybe Pluto doesn’t count.)

Vanya has her MP3 player in her pocket.

“Allison told me about this place,” says Luther. “She thought we’d like it.”

Vanya says, “I didn’t even know this was a thing.”

They stop at model of Mars. There are displays with bolded, fast facts.

(Mars, the “Red Planet,” is named after the Roman god of war. It was known as the “Fire Star” to Chinese astronomers, and “Her Desher,” or, “Red One,” to Egyptian priests.  It is the last of the terrestrial planets, and around 227,940,000 kilometers from the Sun. Only 16 of the 39 Mars missions have resulted in success. The search for Martian life and the study of the planet’s surface continues to this day. The tallest mountain in the solar system, Olympus Mons, is located on a Mars. It takes 687 Earth days for Mars to orbit the Sun. Mars does not have a magnetic field.)

“I wish I didn’t do the things that I did,” says Luther. He’s wringing his hands. Vanya sees a sliver of the skin under his gloves. “I wish I had realized it then, before…”

“I know,” Vanya says. “It’s okay.”

They can leave it where it is.

The next model is Jupiter.

Luther puts his hand on Vanya’s shoulder — pat, pat. She allows it.

* * *

“Then you fold here,” says Helen. She presses the paper down with her thumb. “See?”

They’re making cranes. They’re supposed to make a thousand, but they’ll stop at twenty. Helen’s creases are clean. The sheet music they’re folding is a copy of the Twinkle Twinkle Little Star Variations. (Because Helen’s teaching a five-year-old.)

Vanya says, “Yours are better than mine.”

“But yours have — the Vanya touch, you know?” Ha. Okay. “You’ve been going on a lot of dates lately, right? I remember you telling me that.”

“Yeah,” says Vanya. “I have.” And they make their cranes. “I don’t like the, nearly as much as this.” Fuck. Fuck. What was that? What the fuck was that? And why?

Dimples.

“My best friend’s wedding is next month,” says Helen, “after our performance with the Menuhin kid. Do you want to come with me or something? He says I can bring a plus-one.”

This crane’s actually pretty nice.

* * *

She gets a text from Allison’s phone telling her to meet at one of the Old Town shops. It’s not Allison, though. Allison wouldn’t text with the caps lock on. Vanya has a vague idea on who the culprit is.

There’s a crosswalk, and a vinyl record store. (It sells bracelets, and blankets, and bags, so maybe it’s not entirely a vinyl record store.)

She peruses the classical music section. (She doesn’t have a gramophone or anything, but records are nice to look at anyway.) A couple jazz-pop records have been mixed up into the rack. This one’s of a comedian’s set.

Ben’s in the aisle across from her.

She steps back.

He steps back.

She steps forward.

He steps forward.

She raises her left hand.

He raises his left hand, thinks differently of it, and raises his right hand.

They laugh.

“Let’s — get this over with, right,” Vanya says. She makes sure it doesn’t sound rude.

“I missed you a lot,” Ben says.

Yeah. “I missed you, too.”

“You have to tell me everything,” says Ben. “You have to tell me everything that’s happened in the past two decades. Don’t skip a thing.”

And Vanya says, “I won’t.”

Ben leans on the record crates. “I finished the book. I cried. Really.” She doesn’t doubt it. “I need to buy you something now.”

“Where’d you get the money?”

“Well. Siblings, you know.” She knows.

“Do you know where they sell MP3 player chargers?” Vanya asks. “I’m joking.” Kind of.

Off to the races.

* * *

She doesn’t know how to tell this girl that her last date had been with her brother. (Vanya just kind of stammers when she asks.) The girl has purple hair, and wears chokers. She works at a temp agency, and has four sisters. Her favorite movie is _Dirty Dancing._ She has a dog. It’s a Shih Tzu.

They go out at a cafe. She gives Vanya a piece of gum and talks about her niece’s math convention ribbons.

“Congratulations,” Vanya says.

It doesn’t click.

It isn’t bad, but it doesn’t click.

That’s all right.

The girl wishes her the best of luck.

“Oh,” Vanya says. “You, too.”

* * *

Helen calls her. “Hey,” she says. “I’m out shopping.” Sweet. “What’s your favorite color? It’s blue, right?”

“Blue,” Vanya says, without asking.

“Thanks. See you at six.”

“See you at six.” They're going to push for fifty paper cranes, maybe.

* * *

It’s seven. Helen keeps spare keys in a potted plant by her backyard. Vanya lets herself in.

She hears the doorknob shake. “Vanya, you’re in there, right?”

“I’m in here,” Vanya says. She’s been watching the fish tank. And Ganon the three-legged cat. “It’s not a murderer.”

Helen walks in and puts some bags down. “That’s too bad.” She’s smiling. She’s a little jittery, but it’s probably because it’s late. “Let me change first. Hold on.”

So Vanya holds on.

* * *

The only thing Helen changes is her shirt.

“Let’s — let’s go do whatever in my room,” says Helen. “It’ll probably be better.”

Okay. “I’ve never seen your room.”

“I’ll show it to you.”

* * *

Helen holds the door open for her.

Her room is nice. There’s framed posters of famous violinists. Some of them came to the symphony. Some of them are signed. There’s a copy of Vanya’s book on the dresser. It’s new. (Vanya had told her about it a while ago.) There’s a photo of Helen’s brother on a stand. He looks like her. There’s a shelf with trophies on it, and a painting of a meadow on the wall. The curtains are beaded. The closet is open. The  _Carmen Fantasy_ is playing from Helen’s phone.

“Can I,” says Helen.

Helen kisses her.

And kisses her.

This is what her pink lipgloss is like. This is what her hands are like. She smells like strawberry shampoo. Dimples, dimples —

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck, it’s _happening_ , then.

She — Vanya probably knew. But she didn’t. She didn’t think at all. She kind of did. But. Oh, fuck. She doesn’t know what to think. She doesn’t know what’s happening. Vanya has had one kiss, and it was from someone who didn’t care for her —

Does Helen care for her? Does she? What does she _see?_ Vanya doesn’t see it. Vanya doesn’t see it at all. There’s nothing. There’s a slate that’s too scratched up to fill. That’s why all her dates have gone stale. That’s why her family fucking pities her. Everyone pities Vanya. _Helen_ must pity Vanya. That’s why. This is why. Helen must have seen the girl who sat down before rehearsal. The girl who never fucking joined in about Frank’s kids, or Jie’s new apartment, or Lina’s grandsons. The girl who’s overwhelmed by people that are better than her. There’s an infinite amount.

What a sad, fucking thing. Poor fucking Vanya, who just doesn’t want to be alone.

That’s it. That was the answer the whole time. She had it, and thought of it, once, but she wouldn’t keep it. She doesn’t want to be alone. She’s so fucking scared of it. She’s scared. She doesn’t want to end up like — like herself. She doesn’t want to end up hollow. But she _is._  That’s the point. It’s too late for her. God. She knows what fucked her up. She _knows_ what fucked her up. It’s not just her fucking childhood. That gets left behind. Everything afterwards was and is up to her. She didn’t fucking do a thing. Stupid. Stupid.

Why can’t she grow the fuck up?

She’s an adult. Maybe that’s the fucking problem.

Helen is taking off her shirt.

Her lingerie is light blue.

Then she stops.

“Oh, my God.” They’ve ended up on Helen’s bed somehow. “Oh, my God. I am so, so sorry. Oh, my God.” She sounds so fucking panicked. Some of her posters have fallen from the wall. Some of Helen’s things are displaced.

Oh, no. No.

Vanya fucked it up. Vanya fucked it up. It’s not Helen’s fault. It’s not her fault at all. “I —”

“I thought,” says Helen. “I thought. Oh, my God.” She covers her face and doesn’t breathe. “I’m so sorry. This is. I thought. I am so, so sorry. Please forgive me. I don’t want you to think I — I just thought — I am so sorry. Vanya.”

“It’s — it’s —”

Helen puts her clothes back on in a haste. She has her hands over her forehead.

Vanya tries to say something, but doesn’t.

This is not how she wanted it to go.

How did she want it to go?

They talked about everything. They made paper cranes and marked up their sheet music. Helen invited Vanya to her best friend’s wedding, and Vanya said she’d come.

She doesn’t know how it works.

Oh, God.

Why would she think that _Helen_ would — why did she think that Helen _wouldn’t_ —

Helen hurries away.  

Vanya gets off of Helen’s bed.

And Helen comes back. She must have splashed some water on her face.

“We can still have dinner,” Helen says. “I can — I can make us some green tea. I’m so sorry. I just.”

Helen.

* * *

Diego picks Vanya up. Vanya has not had dinner yet, so they go back to home.

“What happened?” Diego says at a stoplight.

Vanya realizes that she’s curled up in shotgun. “I don’t fucking know.”

* * *

It’s nighttime, so they’ve closed all the windows. She sits on the floor of Five’s room. He comes in with a pop right next to her, and it makes Vanya’s ears ring. (She remembered to close her eyes.) He drops a blanket around her. “Okay.” He doesn’t say anything else. Then he flashes away again.

She plays with her MP3 player.

It’s dead.

All their siblings seep in and join her on the carpet.

Luther, Diego, Allison, Klaus, Five, and Ben.

“There’s probably more we’ve got to worry about,” says Vanya.

(Helen could speak fluent Japanese, and a little bit of Mandarin. She had been playing violin since she was in the first grade. She had a younger brother, and her parents were divorced. She liked wearing clothes with patterns. She had owned her cat since she was twenty-seven. She had dimples in her cheeks. She liked old musicals.

How are they going to face each other at rehearsal? At the concert with the Menuhin kid? That’s next week.

The fucking wedding, too. Vanya’s probably not going to meet Helen’s best friend.

Because she’s a fucking idiot.

Vanya’s a fucking idiot for wasting all of Helen’s time.

Everyone’s time.

Her own time.)

“Bullshit,” says Klaus.

“What else are we going to worry about?” Allison asks.

“You need us,” says Luther, “at least for now.”

“We’re going to fix this,” Diego says.

All right.

This is embarrassing. Vanya’s not used to it.

She kind of cries. It’s tears and nothing else.

Out of shame, maybe.

Her siblings console her.

(And. Her best fucking dates came from her immediate, nuclear family.

Three of them faked their fucking identities.

Maybe they’re all pretending that they’re younger. Maybe they’re pretending that Five isn’t the only one in a uniform.

Besides, this situation is better-suited to teenagers. Seventeen-eighteen-year-olds.

None of them are seventeen-eighteen-year-olds.)

“We’re not going anywhere,” says Ben. “We’re not leaving you alone.”

Vanya chooses to accept it.

**Author's Note:**

> me writing this: what’s the seventh planet in the solar system again? goodbye my astrophysics aspirations but I need some good tea for the Luther date and also symbolism 
> 
> me looking up “seventh planet” and remembering my meager lessons from second grade: it’s freakin uranus isn’t it
> 
> me finding that the seventh planet is “uranus”: ahuehuehueGUHHHHH Nice and Nope
> 
> [talk to me on Tumblr about space!](https://kaulayau.tumblr.com)
> 
> [and join my Umbrella Academy Discord server yo Be a part of the Super Smash Bros](https://discord.gg/muPgAGv)


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